


Sentenced & Silenced

by MerlinOfTheShire



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Bathing/Washing, Cuddling & Snuggling, Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Execution, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Apologizes, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Love Confessions, M/M, Mute Jaskier | Dandelion, Permanent Injury, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Recovery, Romance, Sharing a Bed, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Touch-Starved Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:47:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23546389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MerlinOfTheShire/pseuds/MerlinOfTheShire
Summary: Based on g-e-r-a-s-k-i-e-r-s post:Geralt hears of a famous bard who’s been sentenced to death for his involvement with a witcher and his heart just drops because no, it can’t be.---He's going to be hanged, and Geralt’s not going to know. Not for days at least. Maybe a barmaid will ask him if he’s heard of Luton’s greatest triumph. ‘Bit sad about that bard fellow,’ she’ll say, setting down his mead. ‘Reckon you were quite close to him.’And isn’t that just what got him into this mess, and Geralt won’t even know it until the ravens have already begun picking at his eyes.His Witcher isn’t coming to save him. Not this time.No one is.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 90
Kudos: 1119
Collections: The Witcher





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Earenniel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Earenniel/gifts).



> Disclaimer: I don’t own the Witcher in any of its forms. 
> 
> Thanks to g-e-r-a-s-k-i-e-r for giving me permission to write their idea! Original Post here: https://g-e-r-a-s-k-i-e-r.tumblr.com/post/190798042580/so-bear-with-me-apparently-im-crap-at-making

**Sentenced & Silenced**

They pull him up, drag him. Across the cobblestones and dirt, too fast for him to stand or keep his feet under him. His body already torn and broken, the grazes on his knees only blend.

They drag him, on and on.

Towards his fate. Destiny.

His doom.

They bind his hands, keeping him in place, back flush against the splintered post. It will happen here then. Bound, and on his knees. They will cut his throat, or take out his heart and be done with it. Let it finally _end._

Jaskier the traitor, the _salacious._ The bard.

He’ll be gone.

And will anyone care? Anyone that _matters._

No. Not anymore.

The looming forms retreat, their hands leaving him. That’s all they are now. _Forms._

They leave, and he’s still alive. But eyes are still on him. Judging, calculating. There’s a crowd. Is he to be stoned? Beaten until he dies? They might tear him apart if they hate him so much. He keeps his own eyes fixed upon them, bracing for the first blow to fall.

It doesn't come.

Nobody comes.

Some even leave.

The …guards? He was never quite sure. Whoever they are, they do come back, more men in tow. He's not sure of the time that passes, long since shielded from an awareness of it, but they build something. A structure. When it's done, they bring a rope, attach it to the frame.

He grows cold.

They’re going to- Mercy above they _can’t_.

The bindings around his wrists tighten, his hands becoming fists. He watches as they tie it, that sickening loop. The muscles in his neck tighten as if it’s already around them. He will never forget that body, fallen at his feet all those years ago. Headless, bloodied. No longer really a person, without a face to express or be identified by. All that had rolled away under the platform.

A drop, much too far.

Then that awful, awful _sound._ Followed by the thud.

It had been an accident. The body too heavy, the rope too long. The man’s neck had just _snapped._ His head ripped right from his shoulders from the force of it all. And the blood... so much blood.

He’d imagined himself like that often, for no enjoyment of his own. His body, lying there on the ground. Head somewhere in a gutter being eaten by rats. Or in the air, feet hanging limply as he sways. His rotting face purple and vacant.

He hates it.

The very idea of it is- _Fuck_ , why can’t they just cut off his head and be _done with it._ They’ll kick the stool out from under his feet and just _leave him._ Hanging, waiting to die. Maybe he’ll pass out after seconds, but he’ll still be _alive._ And they won’t take him down, not for days. He’ll be a warning, clear as day. Like he’s a town notice. ‘Stay clear of associating with _Geralt of fucking Riva.’_

Geralt’s not going to know. Not for days at least. Maybe a barmaid will ask him if he’s heard of Luton’s greatest triumph. _‘Bit sad about that bard fellow,’_ she’ll say, setting down his mead. _‘Reckon you were quite close to him.’_

And isn’t that just what got him into this mess, and Geralt won’t even know it until he's standing beneath a pair of well-dressed feet, swaying in the breeze.

His witcher isn’t coming to save him. Not this time.

No one is.

* * *

_Days earlier…_

The sun has fallen by the time he makes camp, its glow still pinking the sky even after it’s gone. But that too soon goes, replaced by the familiar darkened blue, with too many clouds for the stars to be seen.

He’s wondered in the past if this is what the humans see when the sun goes down, even with stars keeping everything bright. Just shades of blue. More shape than colour. When there’s stars, he sees as much as if it were a well-lit room.

But he can still see plenty now, and hear even better.

Roach’s occasional snort confirms she’s still there, grazing somewhere. The mare never goes too far, stupidly so. A loyal friend, even if she isn’t much help in fighting monsters. It’s a familiar quality.

Getting to the ground for rest takes no shortage of aches and creaks. Fucking Bruxa had sent him down the cliffside. He should have asked for more to deal with the damn thing. _Or have someone to stop you from taking any less._ Groaning, he braces himself on his hands, trying to sink further back into the grass. No amount of mutations will prevent his muscles from aching after such a fight. 

His hand brushes something as he shifts, barely there at all. He feels it anyway. Drawing away, he sees what it is easily.

A dandelion.

And it could never fucking be anything else.

It’s damaged, not much left of it at all. Probably his fault. He goes to reach for it, but it’s swept out of reach by no more than a light breeze. He watches as it drift away, an uneasy feeling settling in his stomach.

But it’s just a flower.

\-----

He gets his coin, leaves and goes to the next town. He’ll find a job and kill whatever he’s pointed towards, then return to Yen and check on Ciri. And he _won’t_ think about that stupid fucking flower. He’s going to drink his ale, find a bed for the night and listen for word of a monster.

The people here don’t look. Not while they think he’s looking back. So he keeps his hood up and drinks, because Jaskier’s songs don’t always work. Especially if he’s not there to sing them. And especially not _here_.

So he listens. Because there’s always something to be killed, and someone who wants it dead.

There’s a shuffling behind him as two people sit down heavily. Tired, he assumes.

“Will you be going?”

A male; he reeks of sweat and grime. The other of sheep and dirt.

“Maybe. I think it’s a shame, really. No more riveting ballads from the famous bard.”

His ears prick up, despite himself. There’s a bard an inn, but few are known beyond that.

“I always found his songs a bit shit,” the first speaks, irritation clear in his voice.

He thinks he understands that. The irritation. But Jaskier's songs are a testament to him. He’s always regretted his filling-less pie remark, and the wish even more. _Damn peace_.

He’d got his wish, and he hadn’t needed a djinn to help him. Just his own foolishness.

“Well, you’ve never heard them sung by him have you?” The shepherd, he assumes, counters.

Fortunate, he thinks, lifting his ale to his lips to hide the beginning of a smile.

“And I never will. “

His smile falters.

They’d said something, before- _No more riveting ballads?_ He’s always thought he’d feel relief at those words, but instead… Jaskier is putting on a final performance then, and word must have spread. Perhaps he’s not far away, maybe a few towns over… But surely Jaskier would aim higher than a fishing port? One of the cities, likely. Perhaps he could-

 _No._ He’s already pushing his luck by being in Arcsea, and he’d never make it to any of the major cities in time. He takes another drink. _Of course Jaskier had to do his last performance at the fucking coast._

He hears a tankard hitting the table behind him, “serves him right though, being _acquainted_ with the Butcher.”

He curls his nose. _That’s not_ -

“Well, we don’t really know that,” the shepherd says.

There’s a growing tension between the two, Geralt realises. He feels it within himself as well. Churning, twisting in his stomach.

“You’ve heard the song,” the first says, voice low. A thief, he believes. The man smells of deceit under the grime. He’ll let the man think what he wants. Even if it were true, a thief's opinion should mean nothing to him. He won't interfere.

There’s an exhale, “however he knew the Butcher, he’ll still pay the price for it by the end of the week.”

The tankard slides from his grip.

“How do you reckon they’ll do it? Axe or rope?” 

His heart quickens, and he struggles to make himself just fucking _move._

“I heard they might cut out his tongue, drown him”

He grips his tankard like a lifeline, because Jaskier is being _spoken about_ in this way. Like they’re placing _bets._

The first snorts, “they’ve already cut out his tongue.”

He’s hauled the man up by his shirt by the time he’s taken his next breath. _“Where?”_ he growls.

The man pales, eyes widening. “You-“

Geralt gives him a shake, “where’s the bard!”

A dampness appears across the man’s crotch, an odour accompanying it. “L- Luton. He’s in Luton.”

He growls, throwing the man back to sit in his mess. He doesn’t remember getting outside, but he is, and everything is spinning. Fuck, they’ve- _his tongue._ Jaskier, he’s- He tries to remember where the stables are. _They’re going to-_ He can’t fucking breathe, it’s too _far._ Luton’s too far, and he’s going to fail Jaskier one more time. He’s going to die because he can't get there in time. Because he ignored a fucking _flower._

He finds Roach, and stumbles towards her. He can’t- _it’s too far._ He grips onto her withers, because he can’t do anything else. Breath shaky, he closes his eyes, “ _Yen.”_

\-----

She’s finishing wishing Ciri a goodnight when she feels it. _Fear_. It’s so strong she’s almost knocked off her feet from its suddenness. Geralt’s fear. Sometimes she feels what he does still. Because he does feel. Love, anger, even humour. Masked by that grim expression that only a handful can read, herself included. 

But Geralt is never afraid.

Not of things he should be; the things that frighten others. That frighten even herself.

He’s afraid of deeper things than that. Thoughts that keep him from sleep for days on end. Possibilities, pasts and futures. Destiny, if you will. He’d spit in destinies face if he could, deny it, ignore it. Whatever he can, but he _is_ afraid of it.

But not so afraid that he thought he could keep the truth from her until they were up on that mountain, with a dozen men dead at their feet and a dragon talking riddles. Apparently.

At least he’d found his child of surprise.

“ _Yen.”_

She hears it.

It feels like he’s dying.

\-----

“I need you to send me to Luton.”

It’s the first thing he’s says.

He’s got his hands clenched around the fabric of his pants, still yet to stand. He’d fallen through her portal with Roach, collapsed to the floor the moment he’d hit solid ground. Ciri had remained asleep. Or at least, is pretending to be. Clever girl.

There were no wounds, no physical cause for his weakness. He was just …in pain. Eyes staring, even as she’d tried to ease the stiffness out of his shoulders, Roach nudging him gently.

She pauses, registering his words. “The people of Luton will not welcome you, Geralt. They fear you as Blavakin does.”

“Yennefer, _please.”_

He’s begging.

Another thing he never does.

She gets down so she’s eye level, something akin to fear growing within her. Something is so very wrong. She takes his hand, “show me.”

A flower, crushed. Then an inn, tension clear in its walls. No figures, though. Just voices.

_‘If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands.’_

_‘No more riveting ballads from the famous bard.’_

_‘However he knew the butcher, he’ll still pay the price for it by the end of the week.’_

_‘How do you reckon they’ll do it? Axe or rope?’_

_‘They’ve already cut out his tongue.’_

_‘Luton. He’s in Luton.’_

She pulls away abruptly, “Jaskier.”

Geralt locks eyes with her, “he can’t die, Yennefer. Not now.”

She gets to her feet, breath shaky, “he won’t.” 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own the Witcher in any of its forms.
> 
> Thanks to g-e-r-a-s-k-i-e-r for giving me permission to write their idea! Original Post here: https://g-e-r-a-s-k-i-e-r.tumblr.com/post/190798042580/so-bear-with-me-apparently-im-crap-at-making
> 
> A/N
> 
> Thanks for all the lovely reviews!

Roach has to be left with Yennefer, bringing a horse through a portal so often is apparently not advisable. One less person to worry about, he reasons. Yen's cloaked him, keeping him from detection as he enters the city. No one has spared him a glance yet, and for once it isn't because they are making a point of not looking. _The Butcher of Blavakin_ , daring to step foot amongst them, and they don't even know it.

Only one will know he's here.

He has to find him first, then the best means of getting out. A portal in the middle of a trading hub will not go unnoticed. Some might even be fast enough to wander through, curious. He can't have that.

But first he has to make sure that Jaskier is even alive and not a head on a pike somewhere. His jaw clenches, and he tries not to think _. Imagine._

He'll welcome the title of Butcher if it comes to that.

The cells will be the last thing he'll check, because he needs to make sure that nothing has happened. That there's no burnt pyre, or head covered in tar. They'll _show it_ , because they must hate Jaskier so, to sentence him to die for just... 

Maybe he should have pushed a little harder that very first day, said more things. Sent him running back to that inn in the mountains to sing of blunders with nobles and barmaids. Then maybe he'd be safe, and not somewhere here because he sung the wrong song in the wrong town.

He'd pushed hard enough eventually, but now it seems he'd only pushed Jaskier further into danger than away. He's had time to think about it, what he'd said on that mountain. What he'd _really_ blamed Jaskier for. The child of surprise, the djinn. All of it.

Ciri.

Yennefer.

And how he feels. 

\-----

He finds a noose in the courtyard.

Near it, a post.

And tied to that post is Jaskier.

Alive.

Geralt runs.

\-----

Out of all the bruises and scars, cuts and scrapes, the thing that hurts Geralt the most to see is the look on Jaskier's face when he falls to his knees in front of him. He must have thought- _believed_ he wouldn't come. That he'd die, alone, in the way he fears most.

And that no one would try to stop it.

Had Jaskier looked this way when he'd said those things? When he'd turned his back so he didn't have to see look damage he'd caused. That he knew he'd caused. Had he looked so utterly ruined?

Tentatively, he brings his hand to rest over the bard's jaw _, "Jaskier…"_

Jaskier just stares. 

\-----

He's dreaming. He must be. It's a cruel trick, or his minds last attempt to relieve him of the horror of what's to come. It has to be.

Because Geralt's here, one his knees. He's saying his name and touching his face like he's the most precious thing in the world.

He's-

Oh gods, he's here.

Geralt's here.

\-----

Shifting against his bonds, a broken sound escapes Jaskier's lips. Geralt swallows, bringing their foreheads together, hoping to settle him. "I will not ask for your forgiveness, Jaskier. But you will not suffer this fate."

He feels Jaskier's jaw start to tremble. Carefully, he runs his thumb over Jaskier's cheekbone, gentler than he thought himself capable of. "I have much I need to say to you. Apologies, endlessly so, things I never said… You need not listen, but I beg you to let me try."

He pulls away, bowing his head. "I have no right to say this, and I will not ask for anything in return, but I must, I _need-"_

\-----

Geralt's going to leave him here.

That's why he's saying these things, touching him so gently. He's not here to save him, or cant. Won't. Why else would he be saying these things, now, after all this time? Not when passing by Oxenfurt, or an inn that he happens to be playing at, both of them aware of a nearby monster. 

He's guilty, and wants to make amends before it's too late. Take back the things he said-

"-I love you, Jaskier."

He- _oh._

\-----

He thinks maybe he shouldn't have said it, as Jaskier's' breath dissolves into quiet sobs. "Jask…" his hands hover, not sure what to do.

The bells start to ring.

Jaskier starts to shake.

 _Fuck_. He circles around Jaskier, drawing a knife. He cuts through the ropes, pulls them away from Jaskier's wrists. He wants to hold them, ease the blood back, but there's no time. He pulls Jaskier up, huffing from the effort. Though lighter, Jaskier's not going to be supporting his own weight, not after kneeling for however long. He brings his arm under Jaskier's knees, lifting him up. The bard makes a noise of protest. "You can't walk," he says, trying to keep the edge out of his voice. Still no words. Jaskier always speaks; even if he's got a knife in his side or bruises over his ribs, the bard will speak. Sing, if he can.

_They've already cut out his tongue._

The words ring in his head.

But people are gathering; they'll notice in a moment that their prized prisoner is no longer where they left him. He hopes to every god and goddess that Yen's spell will cloak Jaskier too, and not leave him floating in the air like some jester trick.

He starts walking, and soon there's shouting, a gathering behind him. At the post. They haven't seen them then, not yet. He walks faster, taking a route that leads them into the back alleyways, so they will be shielded slightly under shadow. Just in case. He couldn't hold off more than a few like this, with his swords strapped to his back and a bard in his arms. He'd slow, be thrown off balance, or leave his neck exposed a moment too late. Then they'd take Jaskier, leave him to a worse fate than a noose around his neck.

He brings Jaskier in tighter, despite himself. He wants him closer, because being further away has proved to be ineffective in keeping him safe. He isn't sure if he'll let him go again. He finds a space behind one of the dog houses, hidden enough that he doubts they'll be seen by anything other than the beasts resting in the hay. He closes his eyes, willing their plan to work.

" _Yen, now!"_

\-----

They're safe. He wasn't too late.

Jaskier's safe.

He can breathe.

Yen's bustling around him, shouting things. He's too dazed to notice. Listen. Safe. They're safe. He lays Jaskier down on the bed, and he tries to be careful. He _has to_ be careful. For Jaskier.

He's safe.

But he's hurt.

_They've already cut out his tongue._

He catches himself on some furniture, stumbling.

_Blessed silence._

_I just want some damn peace._

_Shut up, bard-_

_"_ -ralt. Geralt, _sit down_."

He collides with the ground.

\-----

He's in a bed. His bed. How did- he struggles against the sheets, trying to sit up. He needs to-

Something shifts in the dark.

He stills, letting his eyes adjust until he can see clearly. He's not alone. He wants to reach under his pillow, or for his swords, but he doubts they are there. He listens carefully, for another shift of movement. Whoever it is knows he's heard them; has gone still as he himself has, still tangled in the sheets.

Wait. That smell-

Ciri. 

He relaxes, pulling at the sheets as he tries to turn over. Yen didn't want him getting out of bed, apparently. After an effort, he manages to loosen the sheets enough to roll over. He finds Ciri sitting across the room in a chair, a startled look on her face. Geralt's not sure if she's breathing. "Ciri… "

"Please do not tell Yennefer," she blurts out.

He runs a hand over his face, "Ciri-"

"She told me not to come in here, but I was worried. I overheard some things earlier, when I was supposed to be asleep… "

He hums, sinking back into the bed, too tired to argue. To tell her she shouldn't eavesdrop; that disobeying Yennefer isn't wise. He's just too tired. He opens up his arms, offering. 

She's beside him in a single heartbeat, burrowing under the sheets as he brings his arms around her.

"Is Jaskier going to be alright?" she asks, settling in.

He sighs, "you _were_ eavesdropping."

"He's your friend, isn't he. The one you're always sad about."

His brow furrows, "who told you that?"

She shifts under the covers, "Yen told me once, that it's why you get horrible sometimes. Because 'Geralt's an idiot that pushed his closest friend away and has no one else to blame for it but himself.'"

"She said that, did she?"

Ciri nods.

"Hmm."

"You miss him."

It's a statement.

He lifts an eyebrow at it, "what gave you that idea?"

"Roach told me."

There's no arguing with that.

He sighs again. "Has night fallen?" he asks. 

"It's almost morning."

It's been _-_ He stops himself before he can leap out of the bed in a mindless scramble. He doesn't wish to worry Ciri further. "You should return to bed," he says, trying to keep any tension out of his voice. "Before Yennefer catches you out of it. You'll be doing chores till your hands bleed if she does."

She's hesitant, "will you be alright?"

Fondness creeps into his chest, "not if I have to explain to Yennefer why you are out of bed and lurking in the hallways."

She snorts, getting out from under the sheets. He watches her leave, disappearing behind the closing door, all nearly without noise. She's getting better... He might have to watch that, considering her new habit of eavesdropping.

He waits until he's certain she's gone, in bed and likely not asleep, to get up.

\-----

He finds them in the same room he'd crashed to the floor in. Jaskier's on the bed, breathing. He steps through the door, and finds Yen lying across the chaise, looking like she'd collapsed there. 

Asleep.

He's pulled towards Jaskier by the same force that always pulls him. He won't fight it. Now after this. The moment feels so similar to when this had happened last; when Jaskier had almost lost his voice because of him. Destiny has a cruel sense of humour, bringing them back here, making it certain.

Perhaps not though?

Jaskier looks …healed. He's still in the same worn clothes he had when he found him, and the worst of his wounds are lessened. There's still scars and bruises across his chest , but underneath Geralt can tell there's less damage than there was before. The smell of blood is aging, becoming stale. No longer fresh. It's a relief. He finds himself reaching, wanting to brush a stray lock of hair aside-

" _Do not_ wake him up."

Yen. Just Yen. He exhales, drawing his hand back. "I wasn't going to."

She sits herself up, "the amount of power it took to get him like that could have knocked out a horse. Or you. Let him rest."

He hums.

"He'll live, Geralt. I vow it."

He still doesn't turn. "His tongue, is it…"

"It's gone."

He can't look away, "can you-"

"If I could regrow organs I would have used such a skill for my own benefit long ago, Geralt," she says, almost gently.

"Hmm."

He lets himself look away, sensing Yen's tiredness. Her eyes are heavy, and she hasn't quite sat up from the chaise. She's exhausted. He offers her a look of what he hopes is gratitude, "thank you, Yen."

She rests her head against her arm, "I don't wish to see what you'd be like if his absence was permeant."

 _Nor do I_. It will happen one day, he's always known it will. But he's glad it's not today. He tries to soften his features, inclining his head to the door, "get some real rest, Yen. You need it."

Reluctantly, she slides off the chaise, smoothing her dress off as she does. "Do not-"

"Wake him up, I know. I heard you, Yen."

She presses her lips into a thin line, eyes darting between Jaskier and himself, hesitance in her eyes.

"I'll call you if something seems wrong," he assures.

With one final look at Jaskier, she heads for the door.

"Yen," he calls, before she can disappear behind it.

She pauses, waiting.

He meets her eyes, "thank you, again."

There's a moment before she nods, slipping out the door. It closes behind her quietly, and as it does a wave of his own tiredness overcomes him. He looks over Jaskier once more, checking for anything that might be wrong. A halted breath, a wound reappearing, anything.

But there's nothing.

He's fine.

He can rest.

They both can.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N I'm getting weird déjà vu from when I wrote the beginning of my fic, Fangs.

Something jolts him awake, bringing him from the darkness into a new kind. He's not- there's no rope. Where... There had been hands, on his jaw. Geralt's hands. A knife, cutting him free. And words, such lovely words, that he's always wanted to hear. Geralt's words. His witcher. He'd picked him up, carried him. Hadn't he? That's how they got away-

Oh, they got away.

That's right.

He's at someone's home he thinks. Remembers?

The witch's home. Yennefer's.

Had she helped him?

Yes, yes she had. She'd been trying to fix his wounds, but he'd been afraid. So very afraid, and she'd sent him to sleep. Why had he been afraid? She's scary certainly, but it had to have been something else-

His wounds. Something was wrong about his wounds. They'd done something, back in that cell. What had they-

"Jaskier?"

Geralt's voice.

He's here. Close, too. In a chair? No, now he's standing near him. By the bed. Wide yellow eyes. Is he worried? Why is Geralt worried? Is he still bleeding, or- His breath hitches, realising.

Geralt.

Geralt is here.

He'd come. Somehow, against the odds, he had come. Rescued him, got him out of that horrible place. He didn't leave him there, and he's still here now. By his bed, looking all worried and concerned. He wants to cry, reach for him. He calls Geralt's name.

Except he doesn't.

It's just …sounds.

Why-

"Jaskier, try and breathe."

His chest starts to heave, why can't he- He wants to _speak._

He looks back at Geralt, begging for an answer.

Why can't he-

A knife, hands on his jaw. Not Geralt's. Rough, aggressive hands. His jaw, held open, and that knife. Heat, so much heat. And pain like he'd never imagined.

They'd-

No.

No they can't have. He needs-

Oh gods.

\-----

He watches helplessly as the cogs in Jaskier's mind turn, and realisation spreads across his face. He knows. Remembers, more likely. Jaskier's chest begins heaving, and soon he's grasping desperately for him. At his shirt, anything.

Geralt feels something in him break, and lets himself be pulled onto the bed. Jaskier wants him close, so he's going to oblige, if it brings him relief. He brings his arms around his friend, lightly at first, in case he wants to break free. His friend only starts to cry, hiding his face against his shoulder. When the sobs begin, Geralt tightens his hold. He hopes he's offering some comfort. 

He can do little else. 

\-----

He can't speak, but he can cry. He can scream and wail and sob into Geralt's shirt until his throat is hoarse. He can still do that.

They can't take that from him.

Somewhere, between his cries, Geralt guides them both down onto the pillows. He doesn't let go, and doesn't protest when he curls against his chest, his breath shaky and uneven.

Geralt just holds him, letting him cry.

\-----

He wakes when Jaskier does, sensing his breathing change. His heart growing fast. He opens his eyes, and sees the same terror on Jaskier's face that had appeared before. "Breathe," he says, running a hand over Jaskier's side. "Just breathe, Jaskier. You're safe."

Jaskier clutches his arm, eyes fixed on him. His breath is growing ragged, like there's something pressing on his lungs, stopping him from getting the air he needs. He knows that look. He understands. He takes Jaskier's hand and rests it against his chest, letting it rise and fall deliberately. 

They breathe, together.

Deep, long breaths.

And slowly Jaskier's breathing calms; his heart no longer thrumming in Geralt's ears, much too loud.

Geralt forgets for a moment, allows himself to feel.

Entwining their fingers, he brings Jaskier's hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to his knuckles. Jaskier exhales sharply, though Geralt can sense no fear. He runs his thumb over the calloused skin of Jaskier's hand, "would you like to bathe?" he asks, tentatively. "…it might relax you."

He's not sure if it's the right thing to say, but it's something Jaskier always did for him, before. He would offer, after a hunt, or after escaping the venom of humanity. The strain on their coin had at first made the gesture seem frivolous, particularly if he wasn't covered in grime, but Geralt had grown to look forward to Jaskier's pampering, being cared for. He'd never had that before. 

It's the least he can do now.

Jaskier closes his eyes briefly, his breath deep.

"I can stay," he offers. "Or leave. Whatever you wish, Jaskier."

Eyes still closed, Jaskier shakes his head, lips pressed into a thin line.

"Stay then?" he asks, unsure. This will take some getting used to.

Jaskier nods, and begins untangling himself from the sheets, sitting up.

Geralt understands. "I'll run it for you," he says, giving Jaskier's hand another squeeze.

\-----

Jaskier's sitting on the edge of the bed when he steps out of the bathing room, eyes staring. More in his own mind than anywhere else, his thoughts likely spiralling. Geralt doesn't blame him for that. Jaskier's whole essence is his voice, his words. His songs.

"Jaskier," he says, hoping to draw him out. He steps closer, gripping his friends shoulder, "Jaskier, look at me."

His friend starts at the contact, eyes refocussing. He blinks up at him, confused.

Geralt feels his chest tighten, "do you know where you are?"

After a frightening moment, Jaskier nods. Geralt doesn't miss how he goes to speak first, before pressing his lips back into that thin line.

"The bath," he says, "it's ready." 

Jaskier nods again, looking away. Geralt takes that as a sign that he'll follow, at his own pace. But as he turns away, a hand latches onto his sleeve, pulling him back. He waits, letting Jaskier hold onto him as he gets to his feet, stumbling slightly. Knees buckling after the first step, Geralt steadies him before he can fall. He wonders how long Jaskier had been tied to that post, on his knees. Or in a cell, hanging by his wrists.

"Easy," he murmurs, supporting Jaskier's weight, only to be met by rough shoving. He lets go out of reflex, not wishing to distress his friend, only to grab hold of him again a second later before he meets the ground. "Jaskier-" he grunts, as the bard struggles again. Geralt can't smell any fresh fear, or panic. It's something else. Frustration? He doesn't- _can't_ smell it, but he can guess it. He can also understand it.

"Jaskier," he says, trying to keep his hold light, "please let me help you. Or were you lying all those times you told me that there's no shame in it?"

With a final shove, Jaskier stills, leaning against him. 

"Done?" he asks, trying to make things feel normal.

Jaskier doesn't even huff at him.

He swallows, "are you able to walk to the bath, if I help?"

Leaning against him still, Jaskier answers him by staring ahead determinedly, taking a long breath. As he steps forward, Geralt readies to move with him, arm tightening around his waist. But as Jaskier's weight shifts forward, Geralt feels him stumble once again, unable to support himself. He catches him as he did last time, but Jaskier still crumbles. In a different sort of way. His breathing fastens, head bowed, and Geralt realises he's trying not to cry.

"You're just tired," he says, trying to reassure. "I can- if you need..."

Understanding what he means, Jaskier draws a shaky breath, turning into him. Jaskier's arms slipping around his shoulders, Geralt bends to bring his arm under Jaskier's knees, lifting him up. Wordlessly, he carries him to the wash room. Hot steam rises from the floor, the bath set into the stone. He had warmed the water with Igni, mindful not to make it too hot. "I'm setting you down," he says, so Jaskier can ready himself. Carefully, he helps Jaskier onto his feet, then down beside the bath. It takes him a moment to realise Jaskier might want him to turn away, still used to the comfortableness they once had around each other, before it all went to shit.

He goes to the bannister, looking for something, some bath salt, that Jaskier might like. He scarcely keeps anything for himself other than general soap, not desiring for himself the variety of fragrances that Jaskier favoured. So much smell was often overwhelming. He finds soap, and a small box of dried lavender tucked away in a draw.

When he turns, Jaskier's managed to get himself into the bath, settled against the edge. The size of the bath makes him seem small, almost submerged in the water. He lets his feet carry him over, settling at the edge of the bath. He hands the soap to Jaskier, before opening the small wooden box. He takes a pinch of the dried lavender, scattering it across the water. Even if it does nothing to calm his friend, he wants to try. _Show_ that he is.

He sits down beside the edge of the bath, legs outstretched while Jaskier bathes. He knows there is no threat that may come through the doors, but Jaskier had wanted him to stay, so he will. 

\-----

He doesn't mind that Geralt's close. In fact, he's relieved. But Geralt behaving as if nothing has changed, that being so be soft and gentle is normal. And it's _not. He's_ never- oh gods, he’s dreamt of Geralt touching him so gently, holding him close like that. And now he is, and its everything, but it's terrifying him to his core because what if it's just _pity._

All those things Geralt had said, on that mountain, and now all those things he said only hours ago, so vastly different from each other. 

And for once he can't say anything back. How fitting.

He'd thought he was resented, forgotten. That all their years together had been nothing to Geralt but resigned companionship. Then his tongue is cut, and he's suddenly given promises of apologies, told that he's loved. Had his hand held and been carried to a fuckin bath. It's everything he's ever wanted and it _hurts._

It's all too much. He wants to curse Geralt for what he's put him through, scream until his throat is hoarse and Geralt's far away. He also wants Geralt to never leave, stay so close he'll never feel alone again, say those things he still has to say. And the things he's already said, again.

He wants to be mad, furious. But he can't.

Because his witcher has put lavender in his bath, and it takes everything he has not to cry.

\-----

Geralt feels something brush against his hand, barely there at all.

He feels it anyway.

A dandelion.

He reaches for him, letting their fingers entwine. He won't let him be swept away.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N
> 
> Sorry this one took a little longer to be posted, and its a bit short. But here ya go! 
> 
> I posted this pretty late, so there may be some stupid mistakes. I will find them, I promise.

Ciri was waiting. She’d gone back to her room, like he’d asked. She hears Geralt pass her door, pausing for a moment. She keeps her breathing the same, for if he senses a change he will know she is listening. Better he think her awake, than eavesdropping. Eventually, he does leave, and his footsteps fade down the hall.

She gets up, follows him. Hiding in the shadows as she does.

When she finds the right room, she tries to focus on the voices inside, drowning out all else. She keeps herself calm, like she’s supposed to be here. Geralt will sense her, if she lets her anxiety rise.

She listens.

Yens there. She sounds …tired.

And Geralt, she can’t quite-

“He’ll live, Geralt.“

She must be talking about Jaskier, Geralt’s friend. She doesn’t exactly _know_ Jaskier, but she feels …relief? For Geralt.

“His tongue-”

Who’s tongue-

“It’s gone.”

They must mean… She frowns, thinking. _Isn’t Jaskier a bard?_ That means he cant- Oh, that’s _awful._ Yennefer will not be able to heal him. She’d discussed with her the limits of healing magic before, in one of their lessons. Jaskier will-

Footsteps, Yennefer’s. She’s coming to the door. She moves silently away from the door, keeping to the shadows. Yennefer passes her, without pause. Ciri keeps still as she does. She won’t move until-

“When the sun comes up, you’ll be mucking out Roach’s stall.”

Fuck.

\-----

Jaskier smells of lavender. He thinks maybe it’s calming himself more than it has the bard, who’s sitting up against the headboard, hands clasped under his chin and elbows on his knees. He seems to be staring at nothing, but his eyes don’t have the emptiness that they had earlier. His slow blinking tells Geralt that he’s not trapped somewhere in his mind, not completely. He’s thinking. He has been for half an hour now.

He’d sat down beside Jaskier, not daring to relax until he was certain the anxiety that emanated from his friend was not due to him. Even when he stretched his legs out along the bed, he kept a distance between himself and Jaskier. But not far enough that he was out of reach.

Jaskier only sits, thinking. Staring.

Geralt decides he’s had enough of it. He gets up from the bed, going to the book cabinet. He searches the shelves for something that might be suitable. He will read, and maybe it will pull Jaskier from his thoughts gently. His fingers graze the spine of a book that describes various monsters. Jaskier always wants to know what he’s hunting. What things look like, how they behave, how they _smell._ For his songs, so there’s detail- No, Jaskier cant… it might remind him. Drive him further into his own mind.

Frowning, Geralt runs his fingers over the book’s spines, reading the titles. _Common flora for uncommon uses_ , _advancements in horsemanship, magical properties of-_ He stops, returning to the previous book. Perhaps? It’s …a neutral topic. Something he can read about easily, and has read many times. There had been a copy, at Kaer Morhen… Yen had found it for him again, in her own library. It’s practical, and something he’s always found interest in. Roach- she made things easier. Like he had company, when the world turned him away. It had seemed only fair to learn how to return the favour, be competent in understanding her.

Perhaps it might provide something else for Jaskier to focus his mind on, as it had for him.

He pulls it from the shelf, returns to the bed. He settles as he had been before, aware of Jaskier’s shifting attention. It’s only small, but it encourages him to continue. He opens the book to a random page, and starts to read.

\-----

He’s not really aware that Geralt has gotten up until he’s settling back down beside him. Oh, he’s got a book. Why- he doesn’t have to stay here, with him. Not really. Not if he doesn’t want to. Surely, he must have other, more pressing matters. People. Yennefer, or-

Geralt’s reading to him. 

That’s...

Huh.

He thinks about that for a moment, Geralt reading to him.

It's nice.

Perhaps it would be alright to shuffle closer, so he can hear better. If he did, it would be so easy to just _lean,_ until he’s resting again Geralt’s side. He could rest like that, letting Geralt support his weight. Just barely holding him. He’s always so _warm,_ and maybe he could forget for a while, pretend they’re in Oxenfurt. Nestled down for the winter. Then maybe-

Geralt goes still, alert.

He’s a shielding presence, but Jaskier can’t keep down the swell of panic. The thought that maybe, somehow, they’d found him. That those hands will return, and the rope around his neck that he can’t seem to shake will tighten.

But than Geralt’s relaxing, slouching back against the headboard. “Yennefer,” he says, exhaling.

That’s …not as terrifying as it once had been. She’d helped him. That’s why he’s here, in this bed. Because she’d helped. Does Geralt live here, when he’s not off hunting, no longer returning to his brothers? The room _feels_ like Geralt. It’s almost bare, but there’s a book on horses, and a second pair of boots by the door. Geralt never owns more than what he can carry. He doesn’t just _have things._ Perhaps he’s reconciled with the witch, and now they're-

There’s a knock at the door.

Geralt looks to him, a question on his face.

Oh.

He wants reassurance, that it’s alright to let the perso- Yennefer in.

Geralt won’t let anyone in if he doesn’t want it to happen.

That’s more comforting than all the lavender filled baths he could give. He wants to say no, so Geralt will keep reading, and he can sleep, get his mind to shut up. He’s got so many thoughts, and no way to voice them. It’s unbearable.

Would he voice them, if he could?

He’s not sure. But he does want so furiously to _speak_ , or sleep, or-

“-Jaskier?”

That’s right, Geralt’s waiting on him for an answer, or something.

He nods, reluctantly. She’d helped him, and it’s only fair. Supposedly.

Geralt seems to hesitate too, but soon enough he’s putting the book down, rising from the bed. Jaskier wants him to come back, keep reading, but he’s already at the door, pulling it open.

Yennefer steps through, greeting Geralt briefly. When she turns to him, it’s hard not to miss the pity hidden in her eyes.

\-----

Ciri combs the last tangles out of Roach’s mane. She gone to the stables at dawn, as Yennefer has said. She’d found Roach in need of tending, which was strange. She stayed with the mare even after her stall was clean. Geralt would be worried, once he remembers he hasn’t seen her since he’d come through Yennefer’s portal.

So she’s seen to Roach being fed, groomed and watered.

As she'd gotten up, she’d stopped by Geralt’s room. He wasn’t there, so she assumed he was still with Jaskier. She’s never known Geralt to forget his horse, not for anyone.

She thinks about what that might mean. She thinks about Jaskier.

She’s heard his songs; her mother had favoured them. Many of them are about Geralt, showing him a favourable light. She’d never heard that before. Praise, for a witcher. She never paid it much thought, listening more to her grandmother. But now she knows Geralt. Truly.

Jaskier had been wiser than them all.

Perhaps that’s why Geralt cares for him so… and he must, if he'd forgotten about Roach. Maybe Jaskier saw him when no one else did? She'd heard servants speak of things like this, a _pull_ to another person. Someone who you understand completely. Love. Grandmother had scarcely spoken of such things as something to be concerned with, even if Ciri knew she had cared for Eist deeply. 

She wants to thank Jaskier, somehow. If he made it a little easier for Geralt to simply _be_ _,_ then there must be something she can do to make it easier for Jaskier.

There must be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N
> 
> So I let Ciri say fuck. 
> 
> You know who she got it from.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A/N
> 
> Hello! Sorry chapters are taking a little longer. Once again, prepare for typos (which will be addressed once I have had a nap.)

She can’t heal him.

That’s that then.

She’d sat down on the edge of the bed, told him that she’d done what she could in healing his injuries, tried to ease his pain. She told him that there were limitations to healing magic, even for her.

Right now he just wants to go to sleep, stay that way. Dream about something else. Or just lay there and think. Like about the way she had said it… it had been _kind_. He hadn’t thought her to be the kind type.

He hasn’t thought about a lot of things.

Geralt’s hand brushes his back, feather light. He lets himself lean into the contact, just enough that he might be able to savour it for just a moment- The hand settles on the small of his back, warm even though his shirt. Steady and present …It’s strange, just how grounding a little bit of contact can be.

Yennefer’s eyes flicker between them, expression changing. “Jaskier… I would like to try something,” she says, eyes kind. "It might… help.”

She’s not sure what illusion she’s under, but if she thinks he’s going to-

“I can see into your mind, ease it.”

Well that’s…what? He looks to Geralt, confused. He knows this woman in more ways than one, surely, he has an explanation.

Geralt’s thumb moves over his spine, “she wants to read your mind, Jaskier.”

No. Absolutely not. No one is poking around his head, seeing his memories, hearing his thoughts-

Thoughts.

She could see his thoughts.

He could be heard.

\-----

Apparently, it’s safe. Geralt said she’d read his thoughts on many occasions, that it helped him show what he meant when he couldn’t find the words. Jaskier imagined that was often. He just has to think, and she will see. Nothing that he doesn’t want her to see, if he is able to focus on his thoughts clearly, what he wants to say…

What _does_ he want to say?

There are things, so many things. But only to Geralt. Just Geralt. But he wants to be _heard_ , so he’ll have to figure it out. He’s been thinking for hours, and he’s never had a problem with speaking before, articulating his thoughts.

It will just be exclusively in his head, rather.

Exhaling deeply, he meets Yennefer’s eyes, nodding. He was ready.

Yennefer gives him a small smile, before looking to Geralt. “Geralt,” she says, softly. “You have to move away for a moment, or your thoughts will interrupt his.”

Oh. Jaskier supposes that makes …sense. In a witchy sort of way. He feels Geralt hesitate, so he moves away himself, focusing on Yen. He extends his hand, not quite sure what to expect.

Yennefer takes it, folding her other hand over it. “Show me,” she says softly.

He’s not- what does he show? What happened?? He doesn’t want her to see- Should he just _think_? Gods, he’s not sure how to do this. Focus, she’d said focus.

_"Relax."_

Yes, that sounds good. Relax, just-

That wasn’t him.

He can hear her.

Can she hear him?

_"I hear you."_

He meets her eyes with a start. She heard him. Melitele’s tits, she heard him.

Her hand squeezes his, comforting. " _I hear you,"_ she says again. " _I hear you."_

He laughs, or is it a sob? Goodness, he’s doing an awful lot of crying lately.

\-----

He wants so badly to reach for Jaskier. Comfort him, even if he’s not sure how. But Yen had said he wasn’t to touch, less he interrupt the connection. He can see in Yen’s face that something is happening. Jaskier’s still showing her, even through his sobs.

He can’t- he won’t interrupt that. It’s too important. She can give him something right now that he doesn’t have the ability to.

Perhaps he could learn?

Yen had learnt.

Perhaps she could teach him? Then he would be able to- He won’t mention this to Jaskier, not until he finds out if it’s a possibility. He won’t bring him more pain. He’d rather endure the trial of the grasses tenfold than submit Jaskier to that.

He’ll find a way. Even if it’s through pen and paper, he’ll find Jaskier a voice.

\-----

She’d been searching about rooms since she’d seen that Roach was groomed and fed. She was hungry, yes, but she was filled with a determination to find something that might help Jaskier. She’d thought about it a quite a bit, as she’d brushed the dirt from Roach’s coat. Jaskier was a bard. Yet she found no lute, no instrument that may belong to him. He must not have had it with him, when Geralt had found it. Bards always had songbooks too. She couldn’t find one of those either.

Maybe she could find him a notebook, new. Unwritten in.

She goes back to her room, searching her shelves. She has many a notebook, scarcely an actual word written on the pages. Just her mindless doodling, and the odd ink test from when she’d been given a new bottle of ink. Yennefer gave them to her, to record notes. Thoughts and spells she found useful.

She hasn’t really done much of that, and some of the books she just found pretty.

Going through them, she realises It will have to be one without any of her scribbles. Tearing pages would be wasteful, and ruin the integrity of the parchment. She wants it to be of high quality, to last.

She finds one, a little more compact than the rest, the cover a pale blue.

It feels right.

\-----

They managed to convince Jaskier to leave the room, go to the garden. Geralt knew that was Jaskier wanted was to curl back under the covers, sleep away the day, and he didn’t blame him for it. But it would do nothing to aid him in recovering. He needed food, the outside air.

It took them a while, but they managed it, eventually reaching the garden table. It’s already set with food. Yennefer had helped guide Jaskier from the room, supporting him. He’d followed along, a pace behind. Just in case. Seated, he listens as Yennefer and Jaskier speak. It’s her intention for him to hear too, or she would have continued the conversation as previously.

He’s learnt to listen carefully.

She says Jaskier will still be capable of some sounds, which with practice, he may be able to form into some words. It will take time, and she assures Jaskier that he’ll be fully supported.

It’s her way of telling him that if he fails to support Jaskier through this, or hurts him again in any way, she will personally see to his demise.

He believes that to be fair.

She also says there are some sounds Jaskier will not be able to produce, so his speech will remain partially limited.

Jaskier won’t be able to sing, she means.

After a moment of silence, quickly fermenting, Yennefer straightens her dress and rises from her chair. “I’m going to see that Ciri is doing her chores, I told her to look after Roach for you. I’ll return later.”

Geralt knows Ciri is, he could sense her scurrying about the rooms for most of the morning, even though all the thick emotion in the room. He’s not sure what else she could be doing- wait, _Roach._ He hasn’t seen to her since- _fuck._ Had she been fed? Did he groom and feed her in his haze? Somewhere between waking up and finding Jaskier? No, no he hadn’t. He’d been-

“Geralt, I said Ciri was looking after her _,”_ Yennefer interjects his thoughts, voice firm.

He blinks, and realises that Jaskier is staring at him, eyes uncertain. He relaxes himself, letting his posture loosen. “Check to make sure that she’s cleaned-“

“the hooves, yes. Geralt, she’s not stupid.”

She turns her back to him before he can respond, a silent end to the conversation.

With a sigh, he turns his attention back to Jaskier, who’s staring down at the food platter like it’s insulted his clothes.

He’s seen someone eat before, without a tongue. It seemed to be more of a process, involving chewing the food, moving it about with fingers to keep it in the right place, move it back towards her throat, no tongue to do it for her. It hadn’t seemed …pleasant.

He gestures vaguely at the food, “do you want …need help?”

Jaskier’s jaw visibly tightens, but he shakes his head, stabbing his fork into a strawberry. He glares at it for a moment, before shoving it into his mouth. He starts to chew, almost exaggerated. Geralt watches, picking at his own food in an attempt to be discreet. Ready for any sign of discomfort. He’s not exactly sure what he’s actually going to be able to do, but he’s ready.

But when Jaskier starts to splutter, face contorting, he’s handling it before Geralt can even leave his seat. Jaskier splutters, doubled over the grass as he rids himself of the strawberry. Realising Jaskier’s not going to choke, Geralt reaches for the pitcher of water. He’ll want to drink, to clear his throat properly. Geralt’s hands shake as he pours it, betraying his mask of calmness.

He helps Jaskier sit back up, offering him the water. Jaskier eyes if for a moment, as if angered. But he takes it, drinking it with more care.

“Eat the egg,” he says, after searching Jaskier’s plate. “Easier to swallow.”

\-----

He’ll eat the fucking egg, but it won’t stop Geralt staring at him like he expects him to drop dead at any moment. He knows it would be easier, faster, if he uses his fingers to move the food into the right place. But he _won't._ Not in front of Geralt. Not in front of anyone. It’s to… it’s too _much_. It’s bad enough that he’s just coughed his lungs up in front of him, spluttering into the grass because of a fucking strawberry.

He picks at the egg, putting a piece of into his mouth. Geralt does indeed hover, badly masking his staring behind his food. But he’s right. It is easier, almost melting in his mouth like butter, the taste of the-

No. That’s not right.

That’s funny.

He must have imagined- _remembered_ the taste.

Actually, it’s not that funny at all.

He cant-

That’s gone too then.

\-----

He watches Jaskier carefully. He managed to eat the egg, but his jaw is still holding tension, teeth grinding behind his cheeks. Geralt feels the unfamiliar urge to fidget, overly aware of Jaskier’s growing unease.  
  
“It will get easier with time…” he says, because that’s what Yennefer had said. He’s not sure, he never had to… he’s never _dealt_ with anything like this.

Jaskier exhales, hands clenching.

A warning, Geralt thinks. To stop, leave him be.

 _Yen told me once, that it's why you get horrible sometimes. Because 'Geralt's an idiot that pushed his closest friend away and has no one else to blame for it but himself.’_

Is that what he’s doing? _Pushing._ The wrong sort, the sort that he’d been doing since Jaskier followed him out of that tavern. He’d thought- he wants to push Jaskier to survive this. Not away.

He swallows. “Jaskier, I… I’m sorry.”

Jaskier’s fist slams the table, the plates jumping. He looks as if he’s going to do it again, before he remembers himself, pressing his hand over his eyes instead. It's only when Jaskier's shoulders start to shake that Geralt realises he's crying.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, “I don’t- I’m sorry.”

\-----

Geralt says it again. Those words. Again and again. _Are you alright, Jaskier_? _I’m sorry, Jaskier. Do you want help, Jaskier?_

Words he would have jumped over the moon at hearing before.

But Geralt only says them now, when he’s broken and makes Geralt feel of guilt and pity. And when he finally realises, because Geralt surely will _realise_ , that Jaskier the bard is no longer any fucking use to him? That a bard with no voice can’t sing songs to gain passage, or sway weary people into relinquishing their coin?

Because that’s all he’s good for, other than shovelling _shit._

Geralt will go, back to whatever fucking shit hole he’d been in before, to kill whatever monster he’s pointed towards.

And he’ll go back to Oxenford, become a silent poet or something. A cautionary tale for other students. Geralt will forget him, once his guilt and pity is gone. He’ll never say those words to him again, especially the most important ones. The magic declaration. Three words or less.

“-Jaskier? _Jaskier_ , look at me.”

There’s a hand on his shoulder. How long…

He peers up, finds Geralt’s face. There he sees the beginning of tears, brow furrowed with lines. It's fear- no, _concern._ Both? His eyes are full of it.

And there’s something else, something in the way Geralt has shaped his expression. It’s just _more._ The foundation of all that emotion in his face. It’s-

Three words or less.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N 
> 
> Just want to apologise for my constant sentence breaks- 
> 
> I like to write thought processes, as it helps me keep a character, well, in character. And thoughts to me, particularly for some characters, break off a lot when interrupted by a new one. And tend to start with words you're not supposed to start sentences with. 
> 
> But who cares.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed, will get the next chapter up as soon as I've transferred it from my melon to my Apple.
> 
> I'm so sorry.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a chapter just to prove this story isn't abandoned! Hope you enjoy!

Jaskier’s eyes are all red, but the bard's tears have stopped, and he’s not grinding his teeth. Some of the food on his plate has disappeared too. The only thing that Geralt can’t quite comprehend, is that Jaskier is still holding his hand.

He’s finding it hard to focus on anything else, and Jaskier seems to have hardly noticed it at all. Or he’s better at hiding it; he’s always been better at such things. Making himself a certain way, hiding things about himself, showing others. Jaskier never shied from touching him either, before, but he'd always growl or make some excuse about seeing Roach before the touch could linger, bring that calm over him only Jaskier could. He had been scared of it, that calm, and what it might become. Now he's more scared of what might have been, what he might have seen when he walked into that town. 

Sometimes he'd let himself just barely slip, into that warm calm, when they found themself able to afford a bath. Jaskier's light fingers bringing the knots out of his hair, even after they both knew there were no knots left to be brought. Or sometimes when the inn only had one crumbling bed left to spare, or the night brought wind and rain. It had been then, that he'd let himself find that calm that only Jaskier could bring.

It’s something he’s never been able to do, he thinks, provide Jaskier that calm. Regardless of his friend's persistent company, he doubts it had ever been because he brought the same feeling to Jaskier. He knows he's not... pleasant to be around. He's not soft, even if a part of him yearns to be, not kind of word on expression. He knows this. He cant imagine Jaskier finding that calm, when he'd turn closer to him in the night, or stayed under his fingers when the knots persisted. 

He wants to know-how, to ease away those thoughts that torment his friend so. He's not sure how too-

Someone’s coming.

Some two.

Yennefer and Ciri.

He can smell Roach on his child of surprise from here, so she must have indeed tended to her. 

Jaskier slips their hands under the table as they approach, but doesn’t let go. Geralt’s not sure Jaskier even realises he’s done it. He runs his thumb over the back of Jaskier’s hand, as light as he can. Almost a question. _Is this okay?_ He waits for Jaskier to pull away.

He doesn't.

Yennefer and Ciri are quite close now. _Why isn’t he letting go?_

Geralt doesn't want him to let go, he never has, but he doesn't understand. _Why-_

Yennefer and Ciri sit down, and Jaskier’s hand closes around his tighter, brings them to rest on his knee. Jaskier's knee. 

He feels that calm, does Jaskier feel it? 

He doesn't have time to wonder, because Ciri is all but skipping up to them, yellow hair bouncing. "I tended to Roach," she says, hands folded in front of her. She's got something with her, a book. 

He lets himself smile at her, "thank you, Ciri. Did you check to see if-" 

"She had any swelling in her fetlocks? Yes, and I checked her coat for cuts and made sure she drank before I left." 

He nods, pleased. 

Ciri's attention turns to Jaskier, and she smiles warmly, her eyes kind in a way that reminds Geralt of Pavetta. So different from her grandmother. She curtsies, even though Jaskier is below her in rank. "I am pleased to finally meet you, my mother spoke highly of you."

 _Mother_ , not Geralt. Jaskier will have picked up on that, Geralt thinks. Will he be disappointed, that she has learnt of him not from Geralt, his friend of many years, but her mother whom met him only once? 

He looks to Yennefer, who looks almost pleased, likely thinking the same thing and quite satisfied with his ever-growing guilt.

Jaskier bows, as best he can while sitting. Geralt knows he'd rather be standing, his training as a viscount still ingrained even after all these years. He does it with a smile though, placing his free arm over his chest. 

Ciri shifts on her feet, suddenly appearing unsure. She holds out the book, and a pen. The expensive type that you refill, not dip into ink. "I thought you might like these," she says quickly.

He looks between her and Jaskier, feeling his bards hand tighten and a new emotion overcome him. Its sadness and happiness and love. Parental, he thinks. Expected. Ciri had that effect. 

Jaskier smiles warmly at her, and Geralt can see him swallow a lump in his throat. He takes them carefully, opens the book. Geralt watches as his fingers lightly brush the parchment inside, gentle. In the same manner, Jaskier takes then pen and begins to write. 

_My darling, Ciri,_ he watches Jaskier write. 

_I am so happy to finally meet you, and that Geralt has taken you under his wing. I'm sure you know by now to ignore his grumpy pouts, he's a softie. Know this, he will gladly protect you with his life, as I will. You should also know that you are the only person I've known that Geralt has ever let look after Roach. Not even I have had that honour._

_I can also gladly write that this is the kindest gift I've ever received. You are most thoughtful._

Geralt wants to embrace Ciri, when it dawns on him why she had chosen this particular gift, but he is torn as Jaskier is still holding his hand, tighter then before. So he watches as Jaskier passes her back the book, a warm smile still on his face, though Geralt can see many a more emotion in his eyes. 

Ciri reads carefully, before setting the book down and approaching Jaskier. Like she had him, in the woods only a blink of an eye past, Ciri hugs him. It's only now that Geralt feels Jaskier release his hand, bringing his arms around Ciri. His eyes scrunched shut, Geralt knows that Jaskier is willing his thoughts to become words for Ciri. Promises and reassurance, things that Geralt is still trying to say himself.

He thinks that just maybe, Ciri knows exactly what Jaskier means.

* * *

Hours have past, yet Jaskier can't bear to put down the little blue book. It's only a small gesture, but it's mean almost everything. He'd vowed to himself right then that he wouldn't let so much of a hair on her head be hurt. They'd taken everything from him, in that cell. First they took his lute, as they dragged him down below. Smashed it upon one of their knees as he screamed. He'd never see another like it. 

Then they took his songbook. Burnt the pages one by one in front of him. Reading the words, tormenting him with them. They hated the praise they sang. Hated the love even more. It wasnt just his songs in there, but his thoughts, his very soul. They twisted them, mocked him for his love, his hope for it to be returned. Mocked him for loving a butcher that wouldn't even call him a friend. 

They wanted him to give Geralt up, in more ways than just the love he'd so privately written about. He wouldn't let that happen. They would be no match for Geralt, yes, but he would let Geralt earn a worse title then Butcher because of him.

It was then they took out his tongue. 

His voice. 

And a little girl, with bright yellow hair and kind eyes, had given it back to him.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N as per usual, sorry for any mistakes/errors in the last two chapters, I'm cleaning them up as I see them.

He finds himself in Geralt’s room often- their room? He isn’t quite sure, but neither of them has indicated any desire to change the routine they had begun to establish. He had his own room offered to him by Yennefer, yes, but truth be told, he doesn’t want to be alone. Not really. And Geralt’s always been a comforting presence at night, even with the thick air of unspoken words between them. Well, written, in his case. 

There’s a knock on the door; the preceding heavy footsteps and hesitant pause that came before the knock gives away who it is. He puts down his book; knocks on the wall behind him twice in response, not minding the idea of the Witcher’s company today. Sometimes the words of the figures, back in that cell, would creep into his mind. Twisting things about Geralt. About him. Sometimes it was better to be alone for those days.

Today is a better day.

Geralt enters, and with him-

Oh.

He’s got a lute. 

He watches as Geralt approaches, eyeing the instrument hesitantly. It dawns on him for the first time that he hasn’t so much as held an instrument since his own was already in pieces before him. It’s a shocking realisation, and has him yearning yet scared at the same time. 

It looks old of make, but well cared for. It’s hard to ignore the evidence of the well-practised skill that went into crafting it. He watches as Geralt pauses in front of him, clearly as hesitant as he. As if he is unsure of whether to pass the instrument, or wait for him to take it. 

He leaves him wondering. 

He has to think for a moment. 

Why is Geralt giving him a lute? He’d have thought Geralt would have been glad for its absence, uninterested in disrupting the silence that has come with it. Perhaps he’s letting him know that it’s time for him to start earning his keep again? That if he is to accompany him on the path, coin must be tossed. 

That’s what it started as, their companionship. 

A trade.

It’s what he had pitched to Geralt all those years ago. Material for songs, in return for the profits it would bring. Reputation or otherwise. 

And that, apparently, was how it had stayed. 

Drawing a breath, he reaches for his notebook and writes as such. That the lute won’t be much use, and neither will he. He avoids eye contact as he hands his words over, not sure what he’s expecting once he reads them. He pulls slightly at the knees of his pants as he waits for Geralt to understand. To hear the familiar grunt, or retreating footsteps that meant their path was no longer shared.

He waits so intently for all those things, that he almost doesn’t notice that Geralt has knelt in front of him, taken his hands into his.

He finds Geralt’s eyes. Sad eyes. Like something painful is hurting him-

Oh. 

He’s got it all wrong again, hasn’t he.

Geralt runs a thumb over his knuckles, “Jaskier, I didn’t bring you the lute because I wanted you to earn a bit of extra coin. I brought it for you. I want you to play it for you.” 

Jaskier stares at him, and he can see only truth. 

After a moment, he gets up from his chair, giving Geralt’s hands what he hopes is a reassuring squeeze. He takes up the lute that had been propped against the wall, admires its craftmanship. It is truly beautiful. He gives it a test strum, tuning it back into working order as Geralt sits at his feet. When he thinks it’s right, he plays a few chords?

He hums in approval. It’s wonderful.

And he has to put it down.

Geralt visibly starts to fret. “I wasn’t sure if it’s of good make, I can spare the coin to buy- 

Jaskier embraces him.

It’s a little awkward, with Geralt still on the floor, but after a moment he feels Geralt’s arms fall around his waist, pulling him closer. He presses a kiss into Geralt’s hair, feeling him shiver.

Yes, he’d gotten it all wrong.

* * *

“Geralt, if you want this to work, you’re going to have to open up your mind.” 

He grunts, pulling his hand away from Yen’s, “I thought the idea was to read the other persons mind, not the other way around.”

She sighs, and Geralt knows her well enough to see that she is trying not to show her frustration. A rare thing. He sits back on his knees, taking it as a sign to break. 

“You have to open your mind first to be able to see into others,” she says, after a moment. 

He frowns, “I can never see into yours.”

“Geralt, that’s the whole point of why we’re doing this.” 

He rubs his eyes, getting frustrated. He just wants to make things easier for Jaskier, and it’s not fucking working. They had been at it for weeks, since Ciri had given Jac that book. He wants to give him something too. 

Yen gets up, dusting of her knees. “Well try again later, perhaps you should try beginning your meditation process before you try to look into my mind.”

“Hmm.”

She rolls her eyes at him, “we can try again after supper, if you like?” 

He shakes his head, “Jaskier wont sleep.” 

She nods, understanding. “Tomorrow then.”

He grunts, getting up as well. 

Tomorrow.

\------

He finds them at the stable Jaskier and Ciri both. He had heard Jaskier humming before he even saw them. He lets himself relax against the stable door, folding his arms as he watches. Jaskier is sitting on the hay, playing a song he doesn’t know, humming lyrics he hasn’t heard. 

Content. 

Ciri is grooming Roach, more listening to Jaskier then she is getting the dirt off. It brings that warm feeling to him. He welcomes it. She'd started singing when Jaskier played, to the songs she knew. Jaskier had cried into his chest, the night she had first done it. Happy, overwhelmed, sad. Neither of them were quite sure. He always smiles at her encouragingly now, when she sings for him. 

Jaskier must have noticed him, pausing his playing. “Ge’al,” he smiles.

He smiles back. It’s nice to see his smile. 

Ciri pauses, looking between them both. After a moment, she seems to come to a decision and presses the brush into his hand, smiling to herself. He shakes his head, watching her leave. Jaskier starts to play again, so he continues- begins Ciri’s work on Roach. 

Listening. 

* * *

  
Geralt is listening to his music. 

It brings a familiar calm over him, that he remembers feeling when they were travelling. He’s realised that Geralt must have always been listening when Geralt started commenting whenever he played. It's brave of Geralt he thinks, that he’s started talking more. So he had something he could respond too. 

It was just the little things, like when he spoke of a memory that involved an older song when he played it. Little things, like remembering the colour of the flowers as he had sung, or whatever ‘ridiculous outfit’ he’d been wearing at the time. He’d always been listening. 

He thinks he ought to be brave for Geralt too. 

Deciding, he puts aside his lute and goes over to his witcher. He takes his hand, pulls him around gently until their facing. Geralt’s eyes are wide, but he goes easily, his hand coming to rest over Jaskier’s hip. 

“Jask?” he asks.

Jaskier kisses him. 

What's best, is that Geralt kisses him back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N I think I'm subconsciously making Netflix Geralt's emotional skills grow into that of book/game Geralt.
> 
> We all know they would whoop his ass if they found out what he said to Jaskier.
> 
> FINAL CHAPTER COMING SOON- written 30/10/2020


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N
> 
> Final Chapter!!!

They’re lying together. Just _holding_ each other. They’d never done that before, Geralt had realised. They had shared a bed on many occasions when there was no alternative, and had slept close during cold nights even more. But they had never just _held_ each other.

No one had held him before.

Not really.

Jaskier holds him every night now, or he him. Nightmares often brought them together as the hours passed, and somewhere they had begun starting the nights closer rather than apart. There is a gentleness to it that he’s not used to, when they are close. His hair is not grabbed, nor is he jerked closer as if he doesn’t bruise. The hand in his hair is careful, fingers gently carding over his scalp. The arm around him rests there, a comforting weight. He can listen to Jaskier’s heart like this, lying over his chest. It is not frantic or fearful in pace, like so many others, but slow. Calm.

Jaskier had told him that he liked the weight when they lay like this, that it made him feel safe.

Being held by Jaskier had the same effect.

He lets himself tilt his head up a bit, so he can see his bard. “Jask?”

Jaskier hums.

“Can we try something?”

An eyebrow is raised.

“Steady,” he chuckles, smiling. “I meant Yennefer has been teaching me something.”

The other eyebrow goes up.

 _Shit. Uh..._ He sits up, desperate to correct himself. “No, I meant- ah, fuck.” He runs a hand over eyes, wondering how he might recover from this situation. He almost jumps when Jaskier takes his hand, chuckling.

Not mad then.

Jaskier runs an index finger down his palm, making him shiver. **‘What?’**

After a moment, he lets himself trace over Jaskier’s hand. Sometimes it’s easier to do this then look at Jaskier when he speaks. Eye contact hurts sometimes, always has. Vesemir had taught him to withstand it, as to not offend potential contractors. He’d explained it to Jaskier one day, who had assured him easily that they never need make eye contact again if he wished.

Geralt doesn’t think he’ll go that far. He likes Jaskier’s eyes.

“Do you remember what Yen did, when- with your thoughts?” he asks, looking up to see Jaskier’s response.

Brow furrowed slightly, Jaskier nods. He signs for him to wait, moving to lean over the bed so he can reach the side table. As his bard searches for the battered notebook, he traces Jaskier’s hip softly, admiring the view. Once he’s got it, he pulls him back playfully by the waist belt of his pants.

Jaskier chuckles, swatting his hand away so he can write. After a moment, Jaskier pushes the book into his hands.

_We often communicate like that still._

He nods. Okay, good. Maybe if Jaskier was practised in this he might have more luck.

‘ ** _Why?’_ **Jaskier signs, looking at him curiously.

He swallows, taking Jaskier’s hands and closing his eyes, not sure what else to do. He breathes, visualising the word in his mind. Just grazing the edge of a meditative state, just as he had practised with Yennefer.

He thinks.

_“…Jask?”_

There’s a gasp, and Jaskier’s hands pull away.

He opens his eyes, and finds Jaskier’s are wet, shock written across his face.

Something that must be hope grows inside him. “You heard that?” he breathes.

It takes everything in him not to cry when Jaskier nods.

* * *

He heard Geralt’s thoughts.

He can hear Geralt.

Then there is a more frighting thought.

Can Geralt hear him?

He almost shakes when Geralt takes his hands again, ever so hesitant. His eyes are kind, and Jaskier knows he won’t proceed unless he tells him so.

“Do you want to try again?” Geralt asks him quietly.

Jaskier squeezes Geralt’s hands, closing his eyes.

But he doesn’t say- think anything. What if he does and Geralt doesn’t hear him? What then? Yennefer can hear him, and he her. But what if its only one way with Geralt. He couldn’t bear it-

_“Jask? Can you hear me?”_

The sound of Geralt’s voice in his mind reminds him to breathe. He had sounded almost scared.

Swallowing, he concentrates. Geralt must have been working at this for months, so he must try. For him.

He squeezes Geralt’s hands.

_“Geralt?”_

_“_ Jask,” Geralt says, and Jaskier opens his eyes, afraid.

But Geralt’s smiling.

_“It’s good to hear your voice, my friend.”_

* * *

If Geralt had just _thought,_ they wouldn’t be arguing about this. How many times had he picked up his lute in front of the witcher? How many times had he packed it away carefully in its case while Geralt watched?

And yet, there he went, trying to pick it up by its _strings_ for Meliteles sake, snapping three of them. He had _just_ restrung the damn thing.

‘ **If you had just _paid attention_** **for once you would have known not to do that,’** he signs, upset.

Geralt’s face scrunches up even more, **‘yet you somehow manage to blunt my swords every time you try to sharpen them, despite me having shown you how _countless times_ .’ **

He rolls his eyes _._ **‘You _know_ weapons aren’t my forte.’ **

Geralt’s jaw tightens, **‘and music isn’t _mine._ ’ **

**‘Honestly, Geralt. It’s one thing to blunt a sword, but another to think picking a lute up by its strings is a good idea,”** he retorts.

‘ **How I was I to know, you never told me how to carry one before!** ’ Geralt argues, hands moving angrily.

He signs quickly, ‘ **do not yell at me like that!’**

There’s a pause, tension thick in the air. He wonders if they have woken Ciri and Yen.

It’s then Geralt snorts, his amusement poorly hidden.

_What-_

Signing. Geralt has been signing.

He snorts too, realising the humour in his words.

The corner of Geralt’s lips pull, **‘should I use my inside hands?’**

 **‘Now you just stop,’** he signs, pretending to be offended.

 **‘I am sorry,’** Geralt offers sheepishly.

Shaking his head, he goes over to the Witcher and takes his hands.

 _“How about I show you how to handle my lute properly, and you show me how to sharpen your sword,”_ he thinks, looking at Geralt mischievously.

Geralt looks at him with fake annoyance, “that’s terrible, even for you.”

He smirks, “ _well?_ ”

“Hmm.”

* * *

He gets to hear Jaskier sing again.

Jask asked him one day, if he would like to hear his new song.

And he did, he really fucking did.

Hed sat behind Jaskier, wrapped his arms around his bard’s waist while he'd listened to him play. Listened to his thoughts.

Listened to him sing.

Now, he listens as the waves crash loudly as they break against the sand.

There’s no one around except them. No noise except for the waves and the gull’s calls. It’s just them, the warm sand beneath them as they lie against the sandbank. His head in Jaskier’s lap and fingers carding through his hair. Geralt wishes desperately that he had said yes, back on that mountain. That they had gone, and he had left his stupid words on that cliff, never to be spoken.

Yet he had said them, but by some mercy he was here with Jaskier now. By the coast.

There are still some words to be spoken.

It’s time.

He breathes, “Jask?”

Jaskier hums.

He swallows, “I- I never apologised to you. Not really.”

He expects Jaskier to pull away, suddenly reminded of the anger he must feel. The anger that he himself had carried on that mountain. He braces himself for what surely must come. What he would never blame Jaskier for.

He waits for him to leave.

Except he doesn’t. And the hand doesn’t leave his hair, nor the soft words in his mind. He stays. 

_“Yes you have.”_

The words are clear in his mind, unwavering. It confuses him. He frowns, “I don’t understand. I never-”

 _“Your actions have always spoken louder than your words_ ,” Jaskier interjects, gentle.

He thinks about that, relaxing into the feeling of Jaskier’s fingers moving through his hair. He isn’t sure of what he has done that would excuse him of apologising for his words. Actions to apologise for actions, words to apologise for words. He needed to apologise for both, so actions are not enough.

“I still want to tell you,” he whispers, after a moment.

Jaskier sighs, “ _alright, but know you are already forgiven, dear heart.”_

He closes his eyes, trying to hide the beginning of tears. “Jask…” he manages.

 _“I forgave you the moment you said it, you know,”_ Jaskier says in his mind quietly. “ _I was so fucking angry at you, Geralt. You hurt me, you really did. But I knew you well enough to see past your words. I knew you were upset, angered and just fucking pissed at the world, and I was the closest thing for you to take it out on.”_

“You were just trying to help,” he whispers.

_“Yes, tactlessly so, and that didn’t warrant your words. But I forgave you because if I didn’t, the anger and hurt I felt would twist into resentment, hatred. It might have taken years, but it would turn every happy memory with you into bitterness. I couldn’t let that happen, not when I wasn’t sure when we might meet next. If we did, that is.”_

It’s too much. He turns over in Jaskier’s lap, facing away from him. He tries to hide that his shoulders are shaking, that there is a tightness in his chest making it hard to breathe. The hand in his hair doesn’t stop, and he feels Jaskier’s breathing become deeper, longer in its rhythm, silently asking him to match it.

“ _But we did, you found me Geralt. You pulled me back together, and I forgave you again and again every day.”_

He draws in a deep breathe, sitting up so he can face Jaskier. “Can I give you the words to go with your forgiveness?”

Jaskier looks at him tentatively, bringing his hand up to rest over his jaw, “ _you may.”_

He leans into the touch, finding his words. “I blamed you for everything in my life, Jaskier, and for that I am sorry. In my anger I could only see that everything I blamed you for was everything that was good on my life. Ciri, Yen.” He swallows, “and us. I blamed you, because I was scared of how much _more_ I felt when I was around you, because It meant I was more than just a witcher. That I could be _more._ That I might need somebody.”

Jaskier smiles at him, eyes red, “ _and that somebody out there might need you?”_

He smiles at that, bowing his head, not sure what else to do. “I have never been so wrong Jaskier,” he says shakily. “thinking that I didn’t need you.”

He feels himself being pulled down again, so he’s lying over Jaskier’s chest. A kiss is pressed into his hair, “ _and I forgive you for that as well.”_

The words hum in his mind, soft. He buries his face into the curve of Jaskier’s shoulder, overwhelmed.

Jaskier forgave him.

\-----

Jaskier watches as the sun has started to set over the ocean, making the sky above him shine all shades of gold. He presses a kiss into his Geralt’s hair, who has a calmness washed over him that Jaskier hasn’t sensed before.

“ _Geralt?_ ” he thinks.

“Hmm.”

“ _I love you too.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N Thank you so much for reading! I am blown away by all your support!
> 
> I'm running with the idea that Geralt and Jaskier sign to each other predominantly in public as to not draw stares from them touching, and it became a habit. I also realised that while Geralt told Jaskier he loved him in chapter 2, Jaskier was yet to say the three words or less. 
> 
> Might write an epilogue. What do you think?


End file.
